


Spaghetti

by Thanfiction



Series: Team Free Will Recipe Ficlets [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Recipes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:52:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanfiction/pseuds/Thanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of a series of five ficlets where the prompt was to incorporate a relevant recipe in a character glimpse or study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spaghetti

He’d always been smarter than he looked.  It was one of the things that had gotten him beat now and then when his Dad was worried that many A’s on a report card might be evidence of a pansy.  Hadn’t sat down for days after his teacher’d been dumbass enough to write a note praising a poem he wrote.  

Once, he’d thought he was going to be a bigshot doctor or lawyer, go to an Ivy League, buy his Mom a big house, piss champagne on his father’s grave.  But that was before Mom got sick and the salvage yard offered a good job that let him stay in town and he knew damned well if he kept in the old man’s good graces, he’d be able to get the place for a song when he bit the big one.  Which, figuring for booze and weight and one heart attack already, wouldn’t be long.  And before Karen.  

Beautiful Karen.  Nursing school Karen.  Always at the library Karen.  Out of his league everyone said Karen.  Karen he knew he only had one shot with if he was really, really lucky.  Karen who’d looked like she hadn’t believed it herself when she’d said yes after he offered her a ride outside the library in a fierce Dakota thunderstorm and been able to quote from the Bronte on her lap.  

She’d said yes to dinner, so he was taking no chances.  Keeping it simple, something she’d be sure to like - Italian - but sure as fuck no canned sauce and boxed pasta.  He’d done his research.  

Fresh tomatoes, blanched in boiling water to make it easier to skin and seed them.  He wanted San Marzanos, but this was hardly New York City.  Still, he’d found a lady through the Catholic church who was Italian and grew her own romas, and one oil change later, he’d had a bagful.  Fresh garlic and a big double-handful of chopped mushrooms sauteed in olive oil, half a bottle of the best Merlot he could find, three roasted and pureed carrots and half an onion, a little honey, salt, some red pepper flakes, fresh oregano, piles of fresh basil, rosemary, thyme, marjoram.  Let it all simmer half the afternoon, stirring it now and then so it didn’t stick.  Grind and brown good Dakota grass-fed beef with just enough fat and the other half of the onion.  Mix it in and let it simmer another half hour.  

He’d made fresh pasta with eggs and flour and olive oil, designing and machining a new attachment for the old clamp-on meat grinder as a makeshift pasta press that made beautiful spaghetti noodles he’d hung for two days before boiling them in lightly salted water.  Al dente.  

There was real parmesan cheese that needed a grater and the other half of the wine waiting next to a loaf of fresh bread he’d baked himself. Tiramisu in the fridge.  He’d done his research, everything was perfect, and sure, he might be out of his league, but goddamn it if a Singer went down without a fight.  

It wasn’t until the doorbell rang that he realized he was still in his greasy mechanic’s overalls, the John Deer cap, and he hadn’t shaved in about a week and a half.  

Balls.


End file.
